


born under a bad sign

by contrarian



Category: Ray Donovan (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Child Abuse, Childhood Sexual Abuse, F/M, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Abuse, look he literally doesn't deal with this shit at all, okay guys this is a rough one, yep gonna bang them all in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-01 02:53:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12147081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/contrarian/pseuds/contrarian
Summary: this fandom is Tiny but idc so have this monster- rambling and loosely connected one shots, but at least it isn't 'wow ray is such a daddy' smut so ?? anyway you know when it's a worthwhile fic when u make yourself sick right hahaliterally I don't know how anyone can watch this show and not think 'get that man some help'? like matehalf the hits are gonna be me lol :( and the current title (dw I'll change my mind constantly) is from the albert king tune of the same namewould love feedback people who actually read this pls interact





	born under a bad sign

_"The contrast with the scans of the eighteen chronic PTSD patients with severe early-life trauma was startling. There was almost no activation of any of the self-sensing areas of the brain... there could be only one explanation for such results: In response to the trauma itself, and in coping with the dread that persisted long afterward, these patients had learned to shut down the brain areas that transmit the visceral feelings and emotions that accompany and define terror. Yet in everyday life, those same brain areas are responsible for registering the entire range of emotions and sensations that form the foundation of our self-awareness, our sense of who we are. What we witnessed here was a tragic adaptation: In an effort to shut off terrifying sensations, they also deadened their capacity to feel fully alive."_

_-Bessel A. van der Kolk, The Body Keeps the Score_

* * *

 

Father Danny had been a tactile guy. Just generally, not just-

He ruffled hair, tapped shoulders, patted arms, hugged waists, he-

Ray felt like a pervert when he ruffled Conor's hair. When he hugged Bridge. So he didn't. Why did it feel like that? Hugging his own fucking kids?

Mostly he was just a normal guy, a dad, he held them and hugged them and it was fine. But sometimes, he didn't even know, he'd be tired or it had been one of those days, and his skin would prickle uneasily at almost anything. Ray wasn’t prone to flowery language. It was what it was.

It didn't matter. He didn't think about it. He was going to protect his kids, even from himself, whatever the fuck that meant.

Ray knew it was fucked up. It was fucked, and he knew because he'd look at Bunchy and feel a sort of respect, sometimes, in the pity, in the strength of the urge to protect he’d always called love. At least the man could face it. If Ray fell apart the way Bunchy did, it would be so fucking ugly. No one deserved to see that. All that shit and pain and rot.

Then again, Bunchy wasn’t any better for it. It wasn’t like Ray had _his_ drinking quite under control, but he could do a good impression of someone who did- he could do a lot of good impressions- but Bunchy struggled. Really struggled, and his health had suffered- these flashbacks, this chronic shite that he let the doctors he paid a fortune to take care of it take care of. Surely constantly bringing bad shit up only made that that sort of thing worse? Ray was used to aches and pains, he had a dangerous job after all, and beyond that, he was fine.

(He’d gone to see a doctor about his heart, once, just in case, before Bridget was born. She’d listened to his explanation, examined him, paused. Coolly but not without sympathy, she’d said, “no other symptoms, and you haven’t been diagnosed with a panic disorder? What you’re describing sounds like a anxiety attack.”

Ray shook his head. He wouldn’t have ever said he was an _anxious_ person.

“Is it a regular thing?”

Ray appreciated her cold apparent indifference. He shrugged. “When I was a kid, sure. Not so much now. Sometimes.”

She had nodded. “It can be a symptom of a number of problems. Given it’s the only problem and it started when you were young, I doubt it is heart disease or a thyroid problem, although we’ll do some blood work just in case.” She paused. “Otherwise, anxiety, post traumatic stress and drug use if that’s relevant are the places to start.”

Ray had nodded. She’d offered to refer him to a psychiatrist, totally professional. Ray had politely declined.

His blood work came back fine. He’d tried google though, later. He wasn’t dying. He could live with it.)

But Bunch had always been soft, sweet. Vulnerable. Ray loved him, but being like that was an invitation to be ruined, to be someone's victim. Bunch couldn't take care of himself. If Ray was like that, they'd all still be in Boston. Ter would truly have had his head banged in and they'd all three of them be lucky not to be in jail. The way Ray was, it kept him strong, which by extension kept his family strong.

If it was all poison Bunch was trying to get out of his system, Ray was already dead. But that mechanical feeling of disconnect was worth his safety, even if it wasn't a choice any more, even if he felt like an actor in the movie of his life. Even though he was half convinced that, if a surgeon opened him up, he'd only find dust. He knew that letting himself hollow was the right choice. It had to have been the right choice.

At least Ray could be with a woman. After, it was like a compulsion. Maybe he had to prove that he wasn't broken, or gay. He liked sex, because he was fine.

(It had been so intimate, with him. So intimate, and it had hurt so much. What had he wanted? Love or sex? Affection or sex? He'd only known them to coexist, nearly as long as he could remember.)

He fucked girls. That was him, that was his identity. He didn't love them, he didn't make love to them, because love and sex-

He fucked them, and then he left. He didn't care because sex was fun or sex was sport or sex was meaningless so it didn’t matter. Or he fucked vulnerable, needy girls, maybe because he got off on that power. He cared about those girls, but only until they didn't need him.

_he- he'd needed father danny. father danny cared and took care, and he took other things but that was alright_

_one day ray told him that he didn't want it, he didn't please, and he hadn't been angry like dad would be and he didn't even hit him which was good and he didn't say anything just looked disappointed and it hurt and he avoided ray for weeks and ray missed him, so much, so much, he loved ter and bridge and bunch and they loved him and he loved his ma but she was so sick, she was so sick, and he also loved father danny and he was only eight and god help him he liked it when father danny took care of him and hugged him and told him he was a good kid and clever and funny letting compliments fall like pennies but ray treasured them all_

_so one day he apologised. and father danny smiled and ray was so happy, what was wrong with him? he didn't want this, did he want this? he was asking, he was asking, this was what he wanted he was asking what was_ **_wrong_ ** _with him_

_he wanted this. he wanted this. he loved him. he liked it when father danny cooked food for him. he liked it when he took him to games. he liked it when he ruffled his hair and looked at him as if he was worth a fortune and not just muck off the street. he didn't like it when -----  he didn't like it at all when ------  and when he said those things he'd say sometimes- ray learned to like it but it was wrong ? he knew it was wrong. what was he supposed to do? what was wrong with him, that he'd asked for this? he could stop this but then no one would take care of him any more, it would be him and terry taking care of the clan like before and terry was amazing but he was older and kind of gruff and he had his own problems, it wasn’t like ray was his responsibility, so if he wanted this then he wanted that. right._

But it was important that he was the one doing the fucking, and girls liked that shit anyway. And it was important that he was needed, because that was how you controlled your environment.

(He was fine. It wasn't right, what that priest did, poor Bunch. It _wasn't_ right. Ray though, he was over it. He had no trouble in the bedroom. This was just what got him off, and the girls liked it.)

_he had nightmares, sometimes, but he tried to be quiet. he hated himself when he cried. and one night he woke up with a pounding heart and head and pain all over his body and he knew he couldn't stay. he couldn't stay. ray left the house and ran blindly towards the highway. he stopped, found a corner to slide to the ground and shake and cry and try to breathe, and as he did he knew this couldn't go on, and the certainty grew in him until he couldn't think about anything else. this was it, finally. the only way he got to keep what was left of himself. so he got to his feet and walked the rest of the distance to the highway. it was obvious now. it was obvious. why hadn’t he thought of it sooner? the wash of relief numbed the fear. he was afraid, but when hadn’t he been? he waited for the moment, anticipation drowning out the instinct that told him this was a bad idea.  
_

_“ray,”_

_he spun around, heart thudding out of his chest.  
_

_terry frowned at him. terry was fifteen, an adult, and ray was only twelve and still ray-ray to his brothers, but not tonight._

_“yeah?” ray squared his shoulders, though his nose was streaming._

_“you alright?” terry winced like he knew it was a stupid question._

_“yeah. just, walking.” ray looked away._

_“alright. come home.” terry walked over, slinging a hand over ray’s shoulder as he shrank away. terry dropped the hand, a twisted expression on his face._

_they walked home in silence. out of the corner of his eye, ray watched his brother’s face work, his mouth opening at aborted intervals. ray ignored the rush of anticipation, fear, relief, every time terry didn’t speak. as they walked in, his brother followed him to his box room and sat against the door and ray thought of one snide comment, another, but love and guilt sealed his lips. he went to bed. it didn't come up again._

He thought Abby was different, he thought what they had was different. Even though they fought, god they had fought when they were young- it had ended in sex, usually, but that wasn’t the point, the point was, couples fought, so what? In brief moments of clarity he knew he was deluding himself- he loved her of course, in his way, but sex was different, a compulsion that he followed without thinking, to relieve stress, to quiet his mind. Why was it so addictive, if he wasn't really there?

He tried not to think about it. He succeeded, for the most part.

 _fifteen, crying in the shower, cock in hand he's thinking about_ **_him_ ** _and what's fucking_ **_wrong_ ** _with him he has a girlfriend what the fuck-_

 _it's his ‘first time’ and it still feels wrong and not good the way he thought, and maybe that means what father danny did wasn't even that bad? if this only feels a little better? what's wrong with him? should he have liked it then? he owed him, he owed him, should he have liked it? he should like this. men didn't like sucking cock but they liked pussy right? what's wrong with him what's wrong with him? what's wrong with him? it's so dirty and he's a liar and what's wrong with him? she gets off maybe, he's crying why is he fucking_ **_crying_ ** _what's_ **_wrong_ ** _with him-_

He loved Abby as well as he could. Ray was self aware enough to know that often, it wasn't enough, not if they were honest. It didn't matter though, because she understood him, and he would do anything in the world for her, if she asked. Anything except the things that mattered, the things that should have been simple.

Even some of the shit he did do was completely beyond him. That night he’d been plastered and offered Bunchy’s kid that rosary- what the _fuck_ had he been thinking- Abby had hissed at him, when they were in bed, asking that exact question. Ray blearily turned over to face her and shrugged. He had been too tired to intimidate or bluff her into leaving him be.

And then she’d got this look, just horror and maybe disgust. “Conor?”

“What about him?” He hadn’t understood the leap at all.

“Like… the name of the priest was O’Connor, right? What the fuck, Ray?” she whispered the words, breathless.

Ray had thought about this for a second. And then another.

“Didn’t you want to call him that?”

“I don’t think so. I fucking wouldn’t if I had known. What the fuck.”

Ray felt a familiar numbness, the feeling that said ‘not now’ and ‘not at all’ and ‘it’s fine, this means nothing, you don’t have to think about this. Don’t worry don’t think about this’.

_eventually, father danny stopped coming for him._

_he reached his fourteenth birthday. his voice started to crack, and he was bigger now and he didn't need anyone at all. and mickey didn't show up to a baseball game and he came home one day and he saw-_

_what was he feeling? he didn't know how he was feeling. he'd feel envy, then immediately shame. what was wrong with him? he hadn't wanted that. little bunch didn't deserve that, he was only ten, and he was so happy, and ray wanted him to be happy. but he also knew the world was hard and cruel and some things would never be better. the things you got, you took by force._

_it happened, that indefinable thing, the dazed, cold feeling that told him it was alright and he didn’t have to think any more. maybe one day he wouldn’t feel anything at all. please, let him not feel anything at all-_

_(“you lying shit.” mickey was almost lazy about it. spitting blood ray told him to fuck himself and then ran out and into some deserted back alley dump he knew and cried and cried and cried)_

_and bunchy told him, said the father had been at him for years, asked him what to do and ray shrugged. he was fifteen and just out of juvie. “they won't believe you and no one will help,” he said with dark certainty. “I don't know bunch. I'm sorry,”_

So he shrugged again. “I didn’t think about it.”

Abby had just stared at him, as if she couldn’t think of anything to say. “You know that makes it more messed up? This is so fucked up, Ray. This is beyond fucked up.”

Ray just stared back blankly. “You’re overreacting.” He settled back into the bed.

Abby sat up further. “I’m _overreacting?!_ ” her voice got a little louder. “You named our son after the man that molested you!” She drew back a little, a trace of fear in her eyes. She thought she had overstepped, but why was she afraid?

Ray felt a curling-squeezing in that deep and ever-present shame. He had glared at his wife. “I’d have called him Danny, wouldn’t I? Fuck.” He was vaguely amazed at his calm. “You’re hysterical and that’s fucking bullshit. Shut up or you’ll wake everyone.” He turned away from her, thinking about scotch and the unsettled feeling in his stomach, some kind of stabbing pain in his chest.

She lay down, although he could feel her quivering with tension. “You’re so fucked up. Jesus Christ. Jesus _Christ_.” She hadn’t brought it up since, though.

(He couldn’t have done that. How hadn’t that occurred to him? This was nothing, right? Just a weird, disturbing coincidence. Abby had always liked the name Conor. Why would he do something like that? Of course he wouldn’t do something like that.)

_and one day bunch said “I told him I didn't want to see him any more.” there was wonder and a new power in his brother’s eyes. ray didn't reply._

_bunchy was twelve and ray was sixteen and bunchy said “he hasn't come back” and six months went by and terry told them about five years ago and how he broke the father's hand and ray wondered what the fuck was wrong with him, that he'd been dumped by a pedophile priest, and worse that he'd been heartbroken somewhere deep inside_

_how sick was that? how sick was that?_

_he didn't say anything._

Truth be told, Ray had been nervous about becoming a parent, both times. How could he raise a daughter? How could he raise a son? But Abby was so happy, and he wouldn’t let them down. He’d make them rich, and they’d all be happy. It was a long time before he started to realise he’d fucked it up anyway.

_bridge said to him, she was only fifteen, she said to him, did he do it to you too? and ray looked at her helplessly but he didn't cry, not anymore, he was seventeen and the cold feeling was what kept him sane more often than not, even if it made other things harder. she tried to hug him. there wasn't anything else to say. he told her to get to school and he thought about the terry and the highway and he felt, what did he feel? he was tired. and no, he didn’t know where bridget’s hairbrush was._

What had Mickey said? “At that time in my life, I didn't have a lot to give.”

But this was different, it was _different._

Every time Mickey compared the two of them, Ray saw red. How could any man, even a world class scumbag like Mickey, not seem to really understand just _what he did to them_ . Ray hadn't been a good husband. He'd been an absent father. But he wasn't like Mickey, he wasn't fucking like Mickey, if Abby or Bridge or Conor asked him _one more time_ with that accusing look what exactly his fucking _problem_ was with Mickey he was going to finally lose it he was going to howl like a fucking animal and tell them that _they deserved better_ and _it could have been different_ and _bunchy_ and _terry_ and fucking _bridget_ and it wasn't _fair_ that Mickey could have so much now when he deserved to rot in the ground, like bridget and his sons the living dead and ray the coldest corpse, the family that he couldn't protect when they needed it, when he fucking needed it, it wasn't _fair, it wasn't-_

He didn't do that. He wouldn't. And eventually the sight of Mickey didn't light a fire like it always had, when he was just a kid and since. He almost missed it. Anger had always been his best and most reliable tool. Any opportunity to feel alive.

_he swung in and out of juvie until it became jail, the closest he and his childhood friends got to graduation. he didn't give a fuck. he was ray donovan, mickey’s boy, and one day he saw his history teacher in the street and the man said, what are you trying to do ray? and ray shrugged and scowled and instead of being afraid, the man just looked sad._

( _there had always been too many fucked up kids in southie for the teachers to do more than try to stop them killing each other)_ _  
_

_one time he beat a girl so hard her brother came for him with a loaded gun. they both left bleeding and he started to run and in a clear cutting moment ray knew that if this, the endless violence, didn't kill him, the ice and pain, fear shame loathing in his gut would do it with twenty times the collateral._

_he kept running._

If Ray felt anything in those dark quiet nights, it was grief. Somewhere, he knew he’d sacrificed any hope of being better on the altar of family, and given the choice he’d make this one every time. He didn’t need healing or forgiveness, even if it wasn’t too late, even if he could put blood back through his fossilised heart.

It was too late and it didn’t matter. Although he never understood what they all saw in Mickey, when he saw a wolf, a snake, a nightmare, a monster, Ray would protect them anyway. His family would be okay whether they hated him or not.

But what Mickey had done, and not done? That wasn't something that could be forgiven. Abby had told him to move on, but why should he? Ray wasn’t an idiot. However he acted, whatever he told himself, some things ran deep, and the things that made him completely dysfunctional as a husband as a father as a person were in his roots. Mickey should bear some of the responsibility for that.

He liked to think he’d been a good brother, though, tough love and all. He’d tried.

_bridget asked him to go for a drink with her. he shrugged._

_“do you ever wish you were dead, ray?”_

_he shrugged, letting the fear that lit his nerves on fire wash over and off him as his entire adolescence flashed by. he sighed a little, relieved that he was still in the moment._

_“sorry.” she looked down at her drink._

_he hadn't replied for too long. “no.” he’d meant about her apology, but if she assumed he meant the other thing, that was fine too? he paused, gave her a considering look. she was only eighteen. “I guess. why?”_

_bridget shrugged._

_“ya know we love ya, right bridge? I love ya.” he looked at her again, hard. he didn’t know what he was looking for._

_“yeah.” she eyed him back. “you too. ya know?”_

_ray nodded and took a drink. he searched himself. all he could find was that same shame, deep in his belly. the cold feeling had never reached there._

He’d tried with all of them, but every year Bridget swore at him or Abby yelled or Conor wanted to be like him- god fucking forbid Conor be anything like him- he knew that he’d been wrong when he was younger. He wasn’t fine. But it didn’t matter now. He hadn’t been as bad as Mickey, and that would have to be enough, somehow.

Sometimes he wondered, how could he do this any longer? How could he have done it for so long? But he had and he had to, so

**Author's Note:**

> this fandom is Tiny but idc so have this monster- rambling and loosely connected one shots, but at least it isn't 'wow ray is such a daddy' smut so ?? anyway you know when it's a worthwhile fic when u make yourself sick right haha
> 
> literally I don't know how anyone can watch this show and not think 'get that man some help'? like mate
> 
> half the hits are gonna be me lol :( and the current title (dw I'll change my mind constantly) is from the albert king tune of the same name
> 
> would love feedback people who actually read this pls interact


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